Page 6 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
I have to remember I’m giving her a tour. I gesture at the twenty confectioners at their stations, filling molds withtempered chocolate to fill and layer, to coat already made centers, to package by hand.
“We make twenty-nine flavored chocolates that we rotate through seasonally and six signatures that we always keep in stock, sesame, strawberry cheese, and plum wine with our dark, milk, and whites.” I stuff my hands in my pockets when I detect the tiniest hint of movement at the sides of her mouth. I know she has to want to taste them.
She’d always taken her time with her first bite of something, closing her eyes and tasting it. Although Avery never did say what she was doing. And she only did it on her first bite or sip.
As some kind of unspoken rule, we never divulged the important things about our lives—what we were studying, what awaited us back home, nothing that colored the days we spent together. Instead, we talked about the big and the small things. Our likes and dislikes. Why the universe is so large and what might be in it.
It was the most breathtaking way to fall in love.
And to get my heart broken.
“They’re Vietnamese flavors. The plum wine is my mother’s favorite, which is why we stock it all year round.”
There. That is what I want to see in her. The smallest softening around her eyes. Avery gave me that look when I’d excuse myself to talk to my mom every morning to check in. I heard her softly talking to her father, too, so I knew she understood.
From the moment I slipped in beside her at the bar and she looked at me like I shouldn’t even try, I knew she wouldn’t take anything less than the real me. The stupid, smartass but sweet guy I usually was. The one most women overlooked.
When she let loose her blunt tongue, I knew I’d caught that initial spark when she flashed a smile at her cousin, leaving me the opening to talk to her.
Her long, soft, caramel legs were exposed nearly up to her hips, those denim shorts a contrast to the bikini bottoms all the other women wore. Avery also had no beads. The only one I came across without them.
What made her stand out was her reserve.
I shake myself out of the thoughts of her and our past and nod her past the factory and into the lab, where she will work with Wyatt, my head chocolatier and chemist. The clack of her heels on the treated cement taps against my good sense, my willpower to not grab her and tuck her into a small alcove to take that goodbye kiss I’ve been missing for a decade.
When I open the door for her, she breezes past and stands in between two work tables like she owns the place, taking everything in with the swoop of her gaze.
“Here, you’ll be working with Wyatt. He’s in charge of creating our flavor profiles.” I walk her to the table beside Wyatt’s preferred station. “Have a seat, and I’ll go grab him.”
Avery slides onto a stool, crossing her legs and leaning back against the table like she had at the bar that first night. Her hazel eyes lock on mine as if she is completely aware of the reminder she’s presented me with.
Those long legs are covered in tight, dark blue fabric that hides none of the shapeliness of her calves and thighs, the wide set of her hips and tapered cinch of her waist. She is a little fuller than she was back then, and I want to discover it all anew with my hands. My mouth…
She clears her throat and raises a brow at me. I’ve been ogling her.Right. Wyatt.
I turn and knock on his half-closed office door where he’s scribbling away on a notepad. His red hair has been mussed by his fingers running through it, and I know he’s struggling with the new project.
He peers at me briefly, holding a finger up before scribbling away again. Tapping. Scribbling. Then, in a huff, he pushes away from his desk and stands.
When our eyes finally meet, he frowns. “The new taster is here. Right?”
“Yes.”
His frown deepens. “Why do you look shell-shocked?”
I laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s used that word in fifty years.”
Wyatt shrugs. “You’re pale. And not quite frowning.”
“Yeah. Come meet her.” I wave him forward, sure that she can hear us. Wyatt isn’t the best with social cues, which includes lowering his voice for private conversations.
He steps out before me, and I swear to God, he stumbles a step as she assesses him from her perch. She’s still leaned back, body on display in that tight jumpsuit.
Avery looks like a fucking goddess. Venus in all of her glory.
Her plump mouth purses as she takes us both in before she stands and offers her hand. “I’m Avery.”
“Wyatt Reid.” Wyatt takes her hand in a sharp pump before he drops her touch. He really is bad at this. Avery just smiles—a little one at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes blaze with humor. She doesn’t seem offended, which will serve us all well.
